


when i wake i am reborn

by Gretahs



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Families of Choice, Gen, PTSD, Sleep Deprivation, Space family, Voltron Spoilers, based on headcanons that will undoubtedly be disputed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7338277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gretahs/pseuds/Gretahs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She'll be smarter than both of us," Holt had said once, proudly showing Shiro a photograph of Matt and a girl with long red hair. "My Katie'll be in the stars before we get back to Earth, just you wait."</p><p>
Shiro had believed him, but laughed anyway.</p>
<p>
A year later, Katie is Pidge, she's in the stars, and Shiro returns to Earth alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when i wake i am reborn

**Author's Note:**

> or: **shiro's sleeping adventure in spaaaace**
> 
> what's that, you say?? greta procrastinating by writing about a pilot suffering from sleep deprivation??? who is helped by his space family???? who :DD would've :DDDDD thought :DDDDDDDD
> 
>  **notes:** i read a prompt somewhere about shiro sleeping that i haven't been able to find since, so i decided to work to my (one) strength and give it a shot

He slept a lot on the way to Kerberos.

Being a pilot was as much knowing about the navigation equipment as it was moving the joystick, so every twelve Earth hours he'd adjust the calculations on the computer, or maybe track their progress against the tiny dots that marked their path. Then he'd meditate, or talk with Matt in the wreck room and crack open an MRE. Or sleep. 

The constant stillness of their motion was unsettling at first, and the stabilised gravity perfectly matched their own atmosphere to a degree that even the simulator couldn’t quite replicate. He remembers he’d described it to Ryou as being similar to swimming. Really, it was like drifting underwater long enough for his heart to threaten to burst under the pressure.

Commander Holt had spent most of his time watching the stars, or updating their mission progress, or warning Shiro about the dangers a diet without frozen peas can bring. He was a different sort of commanding officer than what Shiro was used to; more relaxed and willing to forgive lax protocol. Matt was similar, only younger, and less a steady presence and more a compressed ball of energy ready to move from the laboratory, to his quarters, to the cockpit, and then back again, in a moment's notice.

They’d talked about their families too: the Shirogane household only had two remaining members, but Holt had a wife and a younger daughter at home, along with an uncompromising brood of inlaws.

"She'll be smarter than both of us," Holt had said once, proudly showing Shiro a photograph of Matt and a girl with long red hair. "My Katie'll be in the stars before we get back to Earth, just you wait."

Shiro had believed him but laughed anyway. 

A year later, Katie is Pidge, she's in the stars, and Shiro returns to Earth alone.

The castle doesn't have the same sort of quiet as his own ship had; the crystals hummed, and sent a steady flow of tiny vibrations up through the stone floors, just enough for Shiro to feel through his boots if he stands still long enough. Despite the space it only feels more oppressive, and in the brief banks of silence, when his team were in separate quarters or in slumber, he feels as though he’s suffocating. Lying still too long turns his limbs to stone, and even against the soft mattress of his bed he can feel the cool metal of another ship, one that’s fragmented in his memory. He still wears black, but he really only feels comfortable when he’s wearing the armour.

He honestly isn’t sure when he stopped sleeping.

When he’s smuggled away from the Garrison, in an epic escape described by Lane through a variety of exaggerated arm movements and accompanying sound effects, he’s unconscious for close to six hours. It had been a foreign compound containing Phosgene, but was heavy enough to cut through whatever the Galra had done to make his blood flow thicker and faster. (Shiro hadn’t been taken under since the blurry time before he’d woken up with a new arm.) But that hadn’t been so much sleep, more an incredibly uncomfortable trip through the wilderness he spent being clutched in Pidge’s arms.

Now though, he’s lucky to get maybe two, three of the tiny numbers to tick past on the weird Althean space clock mounted on the wall, before he shakes awake, the overhead lights slowly fading into being. On an utterly logical level, he gets frustrated by how non-descript the dreams are. Basic health class at the academy had taught him the bare bones of emotional therapy, and something that his instructor had drilled into his head was  _ overcoming trauma relies on an acceptance and understanding of said trauma _ . Commander Holt had said something similar, and at the time Shiro remembers that he’d found it comforting. In the present, he’s finding difficulty in  _ getting over it _ when he can’t even distinguish what exactly he’s supposed to be getting over.

Aside from the obvious, he thinks, then clenches his fist.

When he moves the fingers, it’s almost as though he can feel flesh and blood, because there’s a lasting itch of pain across his knuckles, one that remains even as he rubs his hand over his wrist. It’s hard to find it disgusting, though, because he knows that Pidge looks at it in awe, and everyone else seems equally disturbed and amazed by it.

He knows that it can protect his people, but he’s scared that it won’t always do what he wants it to.

(It’d be too easy to slip it between the ribcage of someone  _ living _ rather than a mechanical being.)

\---

He holds off his newfound claustrophobia for maybe a week after they launch from the Arusian atmosphere, before finally leaving his helmet on the cabinet and walking out into the corridor.

There are some places Shiro respects enough not to enter; the major control rooms, and any of the private quarters. Whatever Allura had been keeping in the sub-basements before its forced destruction after almost launching them into the heart of a dying star. What remains of Sendak’s prison. The cracked surface of the pod makes his arm twitch, and sickening words uncurl themselves from the lining of his skull, sounding similar to some deep, guttural voice that he can’t quite recall. 

So instead, he patrols the entrance hall, and the cockpit. Once, he has to quietly redirect a semi-lucid Hunk back to his room, who can’t speak past his yawns and has a reversed, blurred line of an equation scrawling up one side of his cheek. He spends two days sitting in his lion, idly mapping the stars on the closed lids of his eyes as the Black hums soothingly beneath him. It’s… weird, but weirdly  _ familiar  _ to have someone with him inside his own head.

He isn’t really sure how to feel about that.

Sometimes, when it’s been days rather than hours since he was without the burning exhaustion sunk deep into his bones, the Black will tell weird stories about its siblings. It’s not a language Shiro has any real hope of understanding, and the images that form in his brain are not so much distinct as they are feelings of elation, or crushing sorrow, or betrayal. Being trapped in the castle is something that comes up, over and over again, until Shiro feels like the Black thinks that he’s incapable of understanding the point.

“It’s not the same,” Shiro argues once, leaning back hard against the chair. “You were kept here for  _ your own protection _ . I was locked away to be used by the Galra to  _ hurt people _ .”

_ You try being  _ protected  _ for ten thousand years _ , the Lion says, feeling uncharacteristically snide _ , and then we can talk about how tough things are. _

Then, it shows him a picture of a planet exploding with an indescribable roar.

He can’t hear what the other Lions say, so one of the only successful coping mechanisms he’s discovered to deal with the foreignness of his current situation is to visualise each ship as a larger, four legged version of each of his teammates. The Black says:

_ That’s not precisely accurate. _

“How so?” asks Shiro, genuinely curious.

_ The Blue Lion actually has a good sense of humour. _

Then he sees the Blue, perhaps two dozen millennia ago, doing a weird ritualistic dance on its two hind legs before purposely falling on a crowd of purple leafed plants. For some reason in his head, the Black finds this positively hilarious.

Personally, Shiro thinks that the Blue and Lance were destined to be together.

“I’ll take your word for that,” Shiro says diplomatically, and the Lion hums in approval, before giving a soft shake.

Shiro sees a bed, then himself asleep, body utterly limp, mouth gaping open.

“I don’t sleep like that,” he says, and it’s true: lying down is bad, but lying on his back wraps restraints around his wrists and ankles until he’s swallowed alive. When he does nap, he does it upright, ready to go into action at a moment’s notice.

The Black adjusts the picture: Shiro asleep in the cockpit, comforted and safe. An open invitation.

“Thanks,” he feels warm, and knows the feeling isn’t entirely his own. “But I… I think I need to go for a walk.”

In the front of his mind, he falls asleep at the controls, and the two of them plunge headfirst into a Galra ship.

“You wouldn’t let that happen,” because the Lion wouldn’t. “And I wouldn’t let my team down like that.” Except he kind of already has, hasn’t he? There’s a reason Allura had had to destroy the only thing left of her father, and why Sendak was now floating somewhere in space.

The Black gives another shake, until he gets the message and stands. There’s a dark figure standing in the depths of space, and the sound the Black makes is echoing and full of pain. Another Paladin…? Shiro stops halfway down the ramp, and turns, because it tastes of loss. Or really, it tastes of a refusal to accept more sorrow, until it’s two words over and over behind his eyes:  _ not again, not again, not again. _

\---

Shiro doesn’t have a bayard, and outside of actual combat he tends to freeze up more than assist, so when he does train, its usually alone. He practises on Level 10 or higher, and after witnessing one of the few sessions as an audience member, Pidge spends half an hour cataloging some of his moves, and decides to upgrade the software up to Level 25. Keith is now duelling on Level 5, Pidge on 3, but Hunk and Lance seem less motivated, perhaps as a result of them using longer range weapons. He’s plotted team exercises involving more hand to hand combat in the event of them being forced to work together outside the Lions, and really he likes to plan any excuse to improve their ability to form Voltron.

But more than anything, he thinks that maybe, if he’s stressed enough, if he’s tired enough, if the Galra get back in his head again and they’re trapped outside of their ships, he’s going to take them all out and his team won’t be able to do anything to fight back.

Lance has complained at length about his dedication, but Shiro’s terror of accidentally murdering him vastly outweighs his need to be loved, or even tolerated, by the people he’s leading.

(In the beginning, before the Black had woken in his head, before he’d become a complete being for the first time, before he’d nearly destroyed everything by letting an enemy just stroll in the front door, he’d heard Coran say: “Are you sure about them, Princess? They’re not exactly the best and brightest the galaxy has to offer.”

He hadn’t heard Allura’s response, or maybe he’d just drowned under everything he’d lost in the last year, and the idea that it was impossible to believe that  _ anybody _ could see that he was worth anything anymore.

And really, most of the time he can’t see it either.)

Shiro practises with the drone until he’s panting and sweat has slicked his hair to his forehead. On rare occasions, the dizziness cripples him, his throat parched enough to hurt when he swallows, and he has to sit on the floor until he can feel his toes again. His mother is the one who taught him to meditate, but he hasn’t been able to find solace in his thoughts since he returned to Earth, so now he sits still with his legs crossed for hours, watching his breathing, but in his head he’s screaming.

On a single occasion, while they were waiting for the Galra prisoners to be released from the healing pods, Pidge didn’t go to his room for three days, and instead sat in the semi darkness, tapping away at a laptop, the stolen sentry drone hovering over his shoulder. The way the escapees had talked about Shiro had made him uncomfortable, but the familiar sound of fingers hitting the keys on a board was repetitive and familiar enough to lull him into a weird doze. He was actually asleep for almost three hours, before Pidge gently shook him awake and suggested he go to bed.

He did, and lay in the dark until Allura summoned them, and ignored the heaviness under his eyes when he caught his reflection in the mirror.

Tonight, the pod room is empty, its last occupant currently sleeping in a full face mask upstairs, and only the floor lights turn on when he peeks his head around the door. When he walks past the kitchen, Coran is leaning over a square appliance, muttering unintelligibly to himself, face flushed almost as red as his moustache. Even though Shiro’s steps are soundless, as he stands in the doorway Coran’s large ears seem to twitch and he turns, cocking an eyebrow.

“Is there a problem, Shiro?” Coran asks, but his tone is welcoming. Shiro sees a familiar green paste slide down the side of the counter.

“Ah, no!” Shiro shrugs, keeping his posture wide and forcibly relaxed. “Just… making sure everything’s alright.”

Coran inspects him in a way that makes him uncomfortable, like he’s peering straight through his flesh and rooting around in his brain. Shiro still hasn’t quite figured out if he looks like that because he’s checking Shiro’s health, or if he’s checking if Shiro’s a threat. “A little late, don’t you think?”

Shiro just shrugs again. “I was thinking of starting training early this morning, working on our speed. We’ll get more done.”

“Actually,” Coran says, putting on his especially pronounced accent, the one he uses whenever Lance says something particularly irritating or blatantly flirtatious, “we’re currently orbiting the Montagus Nebula, which means it’s close to noon on the thirtieth day of their yearly cycle! It’s also known as Be Suspicious of Shrubs Day, or in the language of the Montagish…” he makes a variety of weird noises with the assistance of a kitchen cupboard. 

Shiro can’t think of any response other than: “... I see.”

“Very exciting,” Coran tells him. Shiro blames his exhaustion for not being able to tell if Coran is being serious. Then again, the man has always been painfully sincere. “Only happens once a year, you know.”

There’s a quiet knock, and Coran straightens to attention as Shiro turns to face the door.

“Coran, I-” Allura stops, one hand on the wall, the other held to her chest. Her hair is loose, and she’s in her nightclothes. In the semi-darkness, she just looks young, and sad. She stares at Shiro curiously, taking in how he’s fully dressed despite the early (late?) hour, the tension in his shoulders. “Ah, Shiro. I didn’t expect anyone else to be in here.”

“Sorry,” Shiro says, edging his way towards her. “I’ll just- I was meaning to go anyway.”

“It’s no problem,” she tells him, waving a hand idly in front of her, before rubbing at her forehead. “It’s fine, really. Usually the Paladins sleep later in the day, is all.”

“ _ Actually _ , Princess,” Coran starts again, “it’s past-”

“Noon in the Montagus Nebula, yes, I am aware. Thank you, Coran.” Allura sighs, but when she looks up again, her eyes are clear, and she smiles. “I know how earthlings seem to value their sleep.” Her mouth turns downwards. “I, on the other hand, can’t seem to have too much of it.”

“Actually, I’m always awake around this time,” Shiro says, honestly. Allura’s gaze seems to sharpen.

He startles when Coran seems to almost slide forward on the polished floor, to jab a bony finger into the exposed fabric of his ribcage. Coran’s bent almost in half, but cranes his neck but at a seemingly impossibly angle to peer into Shiro’s eyes, idly stabbing at Shiro’s left lung.

“Earthlings require approximately eight of your Earth hours worth of sleep in order to function to their greatest potential,” says Coran, voice seeming to drop. Allura approaches, her slippers swallowing most of the noise, leaning forward on her toes to look closely at Shiro’s face. “You can’t be functioning at your greatest potential.”

And yeah, okay, that kind of hurt.

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” Allura demanded, frowning as Shiro starts to bend backwards in order to accommodate some distance between them. “Is there an issue? Something to do with Zarkon?”

“Nothing!” Shiro insists, batting away Coran’s hand and inching towards the door. “Maybe it’s because it’s past noon. I’ve always been an early riser.”

“The timezone on the castle is still set to Arusian time,” Allura begins, but then Coran shoves the hose of green paste into his face.

“Do you require sustenance?” Coran asks. “Or maybe a traditional Althaen horn song? Or perhaps-”

“A walk.” Shiro says firmly, knocking the button with his fist so the doors slide open behind him. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Coran. Princess.” He gives a little bow, then ducks out of the kitchen with a small spin, keeping a steady pace down the corridor. 

\---

He’s almost not surprised to see the light in the loading bay on, and when he peers around a shuttle, Hunk and Pidge are sitting huddled together near one of the larger computers in the corner. There voices are soft enough that Shiro can’t quite make out what they’re saying over the gentle buzzing in his ears, so he starts to walk forward, purposely making far more noise than normal. When Hunk leans over his shoulder to look, he sees that Keith is sprawled backwards against a crate, bayard cradled in one hand, chin resting on his bent knee. Pidge grins, wide enough for his eyes crinkle, and gives a little wave, while Hunk smiles sleepily at him in greeting.

“Hey, Shiro,” Pidge says, chipper despite the hour.

“Welcome to the nerd lab,” Hunk says, half the sentence swallowed by a yawn.

“Why the hanger?” Shiro asks quietly, careful not to disturb Keith. He kneels on the stone floor, before shifting, and crossing his legs. I would’ve thought maybe the training decks, or the healing room would be better than in here.”

“Good acoustics,” Pidge tells him, and stretches.

“Also,” Hunk says, “also, also, also, the last time we were being productive in here, we  _ did  _ nearly die. So, you know, it’s kinda our way of saying  _ we can do science in here if we want!” _

“You’re in here, sitting on the ground… out of spite?”

“Exactly,” Pidge says, looking back at the computer. Peering over Pidge’s hair, now standing on all ends, he sees a rendered diagnostic of Keith’s sword, and a pattern of data down the left side of the screen.

“Should I ask?”

“We’re trying to synthesise a bayard,” Hunk says, and lies back against the ground, dragging a piece of draft paper with him, and rolling to use it as a blanket. 

“We took inspiration from Keith’s sword, you know, how it can transform when we form Voltron?” Pidge explains, mostly focused on the computer. “Because, I mean, it’s bad enough if we lose them in combat. I mean, you didn’t even  _ get  _ one to lose.”

There’s a weird feeling in his stomach, and along with that heat there’s a sour feeling of them having stayed up so long for something he doesn’t even need.

“Guys, I appreciate-” 

“It’s no trouble,” Hunk says, sounding half asleep. “Like, I could also do with another bayard. Like, another gun? Or maybe a jetpack.”

“We already  _ have  _ jetpacks,” Pidge says affectionately. “And I was thinking more of a stronger shield, or something we can use together.”

Shiro swallows. “I… I mean, if you want. I’m not sure what Allura will say.”

“More’s the better  _ I _ say,” says Hunk, “besides, the princess can’t argue with dedication for the cause.”

“Hmm,” Shiro says, for lack of a better response. “And Keith just… volunteered to hang around in the hanger?”

“He wanted to help you out,” Pidge says, giving Keith a gentle nudge with his foot. Shiro gently reaches out, and rearranges his coat to cover his bare arms. As if a reaction, Keith shifts, and settles again. “We all do.”

“Except Lance?” Shiro can’t help teasing.

“Lance values his sleep schedule and pre-recorded mixtape over spending the night in the freezing hanger,” Pidge says in a high pitched tone. “But, Lance is always willing to help our fearless leader when it isn’t butt-o’clock.”

“Actually,” Shiro finds himself explaining, “it’s past noon in the Montagus Nebula.”

Pidge looks genuinely interested, before turning back to the laptop.

“Feel free to stay,” he says in an airy tone. “Who knows how long we’ll be here. And…” he trails off, “it seemed to… help, last time. When we were with the prisoners.”

“It did,” Shiro admits, “it did help, a little.”

Pidge turns back just enough to peer back at him with one eye, before shrugging, and tapping away at the keyboard. To his left, Hunk gives a soft snore, and nestles in with the draft paper. Shiro folds his hands the way his mother showed him, straightens his back, and takes a deep breath. His world becomes the castle, and the soft  _ tap, tap, tap _ , and the warmth along his legs.

Then he closes his eyes and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> ✨✨ **fun facts:** ✨✨ shiro does have a brother in the original series named ryou. will he appear in ld? who knows   
> i have a [tumble!](http://gretahs.tumblr.com/)


End file.
